


low

by softiedanniie



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Depression, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 12:32:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16175147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softiedanniie/pseuds/softiedanniie
Summary: It’s like someone’s taken a spoon and scooped out his insides, left nothing behind but a shell. He knows there was something in there, that there was warmth where there’s now nothing, but it seems so far off in the distance, blurry and false, in a way.It’s been three days.





	low

It’s been three days.

The curtains of his room are pulled tight, keeping any sort of sunlight from filtering through. The air feels stale, stagnant, weighing heavily like a blanket. His skin feels grimy with dried sweat, his pillow smells of the oil from his unwashed hair, his sheets are desperate for a wash. They won’t get a wash tonight. Probably not tomorrow, either.

He’s trying to sleep again. Sleeping seems to help, allows him to sink into the quiet darkness where he doesn’t have to think anymore. He feels tired, so unbelievably _tired_ , like he’s worked all day, like he’s run a marathon, like he’s been hit by a car.

He’s awake.

His phone’s on the table beside him. It’s been off, screen black, keeping the outside world at bay. He could pick it up, turn it on and scroll through the no doubt hundreds of notifications he’s missed. There will be messages from friends, perhaps his mum or grandma, comments from his fans, news headlines, app updates, little red bubbles that will dance on the screen mockingly. He could do something, anything, tweet, comment, _anything_.

The phone stays on the table.

He’s hungry, or at least, he knows he should be hungry. He knows with the certainty that comes with experience that the moment he has an ounce of energy he’ll be ravenous, will gouge himself on carbs, sweets, the kinds of food that taste like happiness, until he’s well sick. He should probably drink some water. There’s a glass next to his phone, dripping condensation onto the table. He watches a droplet slide its way down the side of the glass and collect in the pool inching dangerously towards his phone.

He should pick it up, move it somewhere safe, at the very least.

He should, he should, _he should_.

There’s an ache, right behind his eyes, that blooms anew as he feels them begin to warm. The dehydration will prevent any liquid from actually falling from his lashes. There’s sadness, sure; that’s always there, sitting deep behind his rib cage, occupying space in the core of him that he never gave it permission to enter in the first place. Sometimes it overwhelms him, makes him come crashing down in big dramatic screaming fits, ones where his body doesn’t struggle to produce tears at all.

This is different. It’s like someone’s taken a spoon and scooped out his insides, left nothing behind but a shell. He knows there was something in there, that there was warmth where there’s now nothing, but it seems so far off in the distance, blurry and false, in a way.

It’s been three days.

The door to his room opens and shuts with a soft click, socked feet padding along the hardwood floor. The bed dips and arms snake their way around his middle. He can feel a forehead touch his shoulders, knees press the back of his knees, a chest, broad and familiar, to his back. They breathe together, for a moment - just breathe.

“Status today?” The voice behind is deep and a bit rumbly, hangs quietly suspended in the still air above them.

When he doesn’t get an answer Phil sighs, his fingers on Dan’s chest splaying out as he pulls them together tighter. Dan knows he hasn’t changed in days, that his hair probably smells, that his skin is greasy, that his deodorant wore off long ago. Phil buries his face into the junction of his neck and shoulder anyways.

“I’m sorry,” he hears himself croak, throat dry.

He doesn’t understand, doesn’t think he’ll ever understand. He feels like a black hole, sometimes, like if he’s not careful he’ll drag Phil in and crush him. Phil would let him, too. He doesn’t understand.

“Mmm,” Phil turns his head, hair tickling Dan’s neck, “I love you.”

Something in Dan’s chest tightens, pulling harshly like a string about to snap.

“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is a drabble for the @phandomficfests bingo fest, for the prompt depression.
> 
> Thanks to my dear @cryptid-dan for the beta <3
> 
> I’m on tumblr at @wlwdjh


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